Oh yes, Jackson thought. Clean as a whistle. He’d had his ears twisted as a young boy for wearing muddy shoes in the house.
“I saw the closet was open and the locked grey box was sitting there. I knew it had money so I grabbed it and left. I went out the back like I came in, then I got in my truck and drove home. I broke the box with a sledge hammer and found a thousand dollars in it.” Vargas moved his cuffed hands from his lap to the small table. “It was enough money to take my family and leave Eugene. I called my cousin in Redding and told him we were coming. My wife wasn’t happy with me, but she wanted to leave Eugene too. We weren’t doing that well here. We packed everything and waited for the kids to come home from school, but the police got there first. I was stunned when they said your parents were dead. I never saw them that day.”
Jackson thought parts of his story didn’t add up. “You said the cash box was just sitting on the closet shelf in plain sight?”
“It was on the floor, but yes, in plain sight.”
Why would his parents get their cash box out and leave the house with the back door unlocked? And why had their bedroom looked messy? “You searched the room, looking for the money, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“How did you know the box had money in it?”
Vargas shrugged. “I knew your parents. They were old and careful and they always had cash.”
Old and careful. He had thought of them that way too when he was a kid. Yet they were also sweet. His father had been stern at times, but he’d hugged his boys every night before bed for as long as they put up with it. Jackson tried to fill the hole in his heart with details from the case. He had to think like an investigator, not a grieving son. His parents had been found dead in the living room. Both shot with an unregistered gun that had never been located. A coffee table had been knocked on its side and his father’s body had bruises that were consistent with a fight.
“Did you tell any of your friends or relatives that my parents kept money in their house?”
“No.” Vargas was emphatic. “I didn’t think about the money until that day when I saw the cash box.”
“Did any of your acquaintances own a handgun?”
“I hardly knew anyone in Eugene. We’d only been there for a year. Their deaths had nothing to do with me, I swear.” Vargas made the sign of the cross on his chest. “I will soon meet God and I’m trying to make everything right. I’m telling you this now so you can find the real killer.”
Jackson believed him. “Did you see or hear anything that seemed out of place that day?”
“Not really.”
“You said you came to finish a brick wall. Did you work the day before?”
“Yes, for about five hours. Why?”
“How did my parents seem that week? Were they worried? Did they argue about anything?” Vargas was probably not the right person to ask, but he had to start somewhere.
“Everything seemed fine.” Vargas grimaced and held his stomach again. “I have no idea who would hurt your parents. They were very kind. They had no enemies.
Except the bastard who shot them. Despair washed over Jackson. His chance of finding the killer—or killers—after all this time seemed hopeless. He had no crime scene to analyze, no witnesses to interrogate. Even if the same people still lived next door to his parents’ house, what were the odds they would remember anything useful after eleven years?
He had to try, but he worried he would make himself crazy in the process. He tended to become obsessive about working a case, even when the dead were strangers to him. “What else can you tell me about that day? Any little detail could help.”
“I didn’t see Clark and Evelyn. They weren’t home and the truck was gone.”
“The car was there and the truck was gone?”
“That’s right.”
Jackson didn’t know how it could be connected, but if they had taken the truck, they expected to buy something big or haul something dirty. He felt jumpy now, anxious to get out of the cramped windowless room. He stood. “Thank you for telling me this.” He wouldn’t apologize to Vargas for the way the detectives had treated him. Someone should, but it was not his responsibility. If the handyman hadn’t taken the money, he wouldn’t be here.
“Thank you for believing me.” A strange look passed over Vargas’ face. He started to say something, then stopped.
“What is it?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You asked about the day before. Late in the afternoon, right before I left, your brother Derrick came to see your parents. He had a duffle bag and a suitcase with him, like he planned to stay for a while.”
“Did he say anything to you?” Jackson didn’t think the information was relevant. Derrick had moved in and out of his parents’ house a few times.
“We didn’t talk. He rushed into the house and I left soon after.”
“If you think of anything else, please contact me.” Jackson pressed the red buzzer to summon the guard.
On the drive home, he rehearsed telling his boss, Sergeant Denise Lammers, that he wanted to work an old case that had been successfully adjudicated. No matter how he presented it, Lammers didn’t approve, even in his visualized version.
She wouldn’t like that he was personally connected to the case, and she would hate hearing that two Eugene law enforcement personnel had abused a suspect until he confessed, even if it had happened a decade ago. Typically, if an officer violated department rules, the case would be turned over to internal affairs. But one of the accused, Santori, was now working in IA, so what was the protocol? The district attorney would also have to be notified as the one to files new charges…if Jackson found the real perpetrator.
It was screwed up at least six ways.
Two young guys in a sports car passed and gave him a thumbs-up. His three-wheeled motorcycle often affected people that way, and it gave Jackson a jolt of pride every time. The memory of building it from a pile of VW and motorcycle parts helped him clear his mind and enjoy the rush of wind on his face. He didn’t get many opportunities to experience the open road.
By the time he reached Eugene, he’d decided to keep the case to himself and work it on his own for a while. He would focus on finding a new suspect and not bring up the abuse of Vargas just yet. They were separate circumstances, and bringing justice to his parents was more important than punishing two cops who’d thought they were doing Jackson a favor at the time, however misguided it was. He would not let the abuse go forever though.
Jackson pulled into his driveway on Harris Street, relieved to be home. Before putting the trike in the garage, he took a moment to gaze at the canopy of trees over the cozy bungalow he’d lived in for fourteen years. The For Sale sign in the front yard disturbed him every time he saw it. He didn’t really want to move, but his ex-wife owned half of the house, and she was pressuring him for her equity. Other than sell, his only option was to refinance on his own, then take out another loan to buy out the thirty grand she figured she had coming. His banker had said he’d never qualify for both.
After a long talk with Katie, Jackson had put the house on the market and they’d talked about moving in with Kera—and her entourage—when it sold. He was still trying to come to grips with all the changes in store for him.
While he waited for Katie to come home, Jackson sat at his kitchen table and made a list of things he could do to get the investigation rolling: 1) find the old case file and read through the paperwork, 2) talk to old neighbors, 3) call Derrick.
The last entry would be the hardest. He hadn’t spoken to his brother since the month after their parents’ funeral. They’d argued about what to do with the house and personal items. Their parents’ will had instructed that the house be sold and the profits split. Derrick, who had just moved back in, wanted to stay in the home and buy out Jackson’s half of the inheritance. Jackson knew his brother would probably never pay him, but in the end, he’d given in rath
er than be an ass about it. Derrick had made only two payments, but he was still living in the house. After an argument about the equity, ten years of silence had followed. Jackson never meant for the rift to go on that long, but somehow it had.
He didn’t care about the money, even though he needed it now more than ever. It was the principle. Derrick had caused his parents a lot of grief as a young man. He’d been in one mess after another. Even after he settled down and found steady work, he never quite paid his own way. Jackson resented the burden Derrick had been to his parents when they were alive, and he resented Derrick’s presence in their real estate now.
But he had to put all that aside because he needed Derrick’s cooperation. Some of their parents’ personal items were likely still in storage in the house and Jackson wanted to examine everything. He didn’t know what he expected to find, but it was a place to start. Someone had come to the house and shot Clark and Evelyn Jackson. Now that robbery was not the motive, there had to be another reason.
The front door flew open and Katie rushed in, finding him at the kitchen table, his favorite place to think and talk. “Hey, Dad. I discovered a great band today. Have you ever heard of Rebel Jar?”
“They’re local, right?”
“Yes, and they’re awesome.” She dropped her backpack on the floor. “What are you thinking about? You look sad.”
“My brother Derrick.”
“Are you going to call him?”
“I plan to stop by and see him.”
“Woohoo!” Katie gave him a high five. “About freaking time.”
Later at Kera’s house, he rang the doorbell but no one answered. They heard voices and a baby crying.
“Let’s just go in,” Katie said. “Kera told me to treat her house like my home.” His daughter opened the door and called out, “We’re here.” Jackson followed her in.
Kera, her daughter-in-law Danette, and little Micah were in her bright spacious kitchen. Danette held the red-faced baby over her shoulder while Kera tried to rub his gums. “Oh hi,” she said, giving Jackson a kiss as he stepped close. “Micah is teething.”
“Red licorice works wonders for that,” Jackson teased.
Kera gave him an indulgent smile, and Jackson felt happy for the first time that day. Tall and muscular, with long copper hair and wide cheekbones, Kera was a striking woman who made people of both genders stare. He’d met her during a homicide case the year before, and they’d started dating soon after. At that point, she was living alone in the house, still grieving for her son who’d died in Iraq.
“If we get desperate, we’ll try the licorice,” Kera responded. “For now, a little of this numbing gel should work.”
“What are we having for dinner?” Katie asked, peeking in the oven.
“Chicken enchiladas and corn salad.”
“Yum. Can I hold Micah?” Katie held out her arms. Jackson was surprised by how bonded his daughter had become to Kera’s grandchild.
“Sure.” Danette, who looked much like Kera even though they weren’t genetically related, handed Micah to Katie and the baby squealed with joy. The young mother had dated Kera’s son before he shipped out to Iraq and Kera had taken her in after the baby was born. Jackson loved Kera for her generosity, but Danette’s presence had altered the course of their relationship.
During dinner, Kera asked both young women about the classes they’d signed up for. Danette would soon start at Lane Community College to take prerequisites for nursing school. Jackson didn’t think she seemed like the nurturing type, but he kept it to himself. He listened to the women talk about school, careers, and clothes—between interruptions for feeding and wiping the baby—and wondered what it would be like to experience this every night. Was he ready to move in here when his house sold?
“You’re pretty quiet, Wade,” Kera said later, as they cleaned up in the kitchen.
“I keep thinking about my parents and how to investigate their case.” He’d called and told her about the letter before visiting the prison.
“Is there a file from the original investigation?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
The concern on her beautiful face made his heart swell. Jackson reached for Kera, pressing his lips to hers in a lingering kiss. “When are we going to be alone next?”
“I’ll have to come to your place. Danette never goes anywhere.” Kera whispered and kissed his ear at the same time. Jackson filled with lust and had to step back. The kids could burst in at any moment.
“I think Katie has plans to be out of the house this Friday.”
Kera gave him a wicked smile. “I hope I can wait that long.”
His daughter stepped in and announced. “Micah won’t stop hiccupping. What should I do?”
“Make him laugh,” Kera said. “If that doesn’t work, bring him to me.”
When Katie left, his girlfriend asked, “Have you had any buyers interested in your house?”
“An older couple looked at it last week, but I haven’t heard back from them.” Jackson loaded dishes as they talked. “My agent thinks I should lower the price.”
“Are you going to?”
“It seems too soon.”
“It’s been on the market all summer.”
Jackson was quiet.
“Are you having second thoughts about moving in here?”
He’d had second and third thoughts by now. “I admit, it makes me a little nervous, but nothing has changed. I want to get out of my mortgage with Renee and I want to wake up every day with you.”
“Then let’s get your house sold. Maybe you need a new agent.”
“We’ll drop the price a little first and see what happens.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Just be patient with me. Especially while I investigate my parents’ murders.”
“I’m worried that you’ll lose yourself in this one.”
“Me too.”
Chapter 3
Monday, September 6, 8:30 a.m.
Detective Lara Evans watched the sergeant approach Jackson with an assignment and wondered if the case was a homicide. He always got the prime investigations, but as her mentor he usually chose her to be on his taskforce. She loved working closely with him.
This morning Jackson looked worried. His dark eyes held new pain and the little scar in his eyebrow twitched as Lammers talked. Evans loved watching Jackson interact with people. He was good at keeping his face impassive. His strong jaw and lush lips never gave away anything, but she’d learned to read his eyes. As the boss walked away, Jackson seemed relieved.
A moment later, Sergeant Lammers strode up to Evan’s desk, her massive body rustling papers along the way. “What are you working on?”
“The Josh Myers case,” Evans answered. “I found a witness and arrested David Russo. He’s still denying he did the beating, but his hands say differently. I took photos so I think he’ll plead.”
“If you’re ready, I’ve got an interesting case for you.”
Lammers’ smile made Evans nervous. Interesting could mean so many things. “What is it?”
“A woman who’s been in a coma for two years woke up yesterday and said someone tried to kill her. At the time, everyone thought it was a suicide attempt.”
“Two years? Should it go to the cold case volunteers?”
“It was never investigated as an assault, so we have to treat it like a new case.” Lammers handed her a small sheet of notepaper. “The woman’s name is Gina Stahl.”
Evans stood, ready to get moving. “Sounds like a good change of pace from the testosterone-fueled assaults I usually get stuck with.” She would have preferred to be assigned a real homicide, but attempted homicide was close enough. “Where is she?”
“Rosehill Care in Springfield.”
“We have jurisdiction?”
“The assault took place in her home in Eugene in August 2009. It’s our case.”
Evans found the address online, grabbed her
jacket and carryall bag, and headed out. She carried the jacket over her shoulder, not planning to wear it until she had to. Even in the shade of the underground parking lot, the temperature was in the nineties. It was one of about five days a year that Eugene, Oregon could be considered hot. She wouldn’t complain though. Anything was better than the cold. Growing up in Alaska, she’d come to hate the dark and cold. At nineteen, she’d left that God-forsaken frozen place and her miserable redneck parents and never looked back.
Her city-issued Impala, affectionately called the Geezer because only old men (and cops) drove the model, was ten degrees warmer than the parking lot. She cranked up the air conditioning, not wanting to sweat into her new jacket. Five blocks later, she was on the expressway to Springfield, their adjacent sister city, a sprawled-out blue-collar town with about half the population of Eugene. She’d lived in Springfield when she first moved to the area and had worked as a paramedic there. But Eugene—with its downtown university, performing arts center, and colorful Saturday market—had appealed to her more. Evans chuckled at her hypocrisy. She rarely participated in those activities, but she liked knowing they were there and that she lived in a city rich with art and education.
The Rosehill facility was just off Q Street, not far from the freeway. Long, low, and white, the building shimmered in the heat. Evans reached for the wide front door and found it locked. She saw a sign saying to push the green buzzer and, a second later, heard a click. She looked around for a camera and didn’t see one. The locked doors were probably intended to keep dementia patients from wandering away.
Evans stepped inside and immediately recoiled. The cool air stank of feces and rotting flesh. People came to the facility to die. She braced herself and strode to the administration desk, staffed by a bored young woman. “I’m Detective Evans with the Eugene Police. I’m here to see Gina Stahl.”
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 2
